


The Trappings of Adulthood

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Corsetry, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Happy Ending, Light BDSM, Marriage, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 08:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "Yes, I see what the corset does to you," Reynard says, and sucks his teeth. "So cruel. These little buds must be suckled until they *bruise*.""HNH — don't —""Don't what, soeur? Don't make you want to do what you already want to do? You know this must come *off* —""But it *can't*," Marie-Angelique says, and steps *away*. "This — this can't be more than a little bit of play before I go back to *work*. Do you *understand*."Reynard yips — and bares his throat with a grin. "I will be *good*, ma soeur. I will be *very* good... if you tell me how I am *allowed* to be so..."





	The Trappings of Adulthood

**Author's Note:**

> I am no longer sure *which* universe I set this snippet in -- it actually might be part of still another WIP I've got cooking over here -- but, well, you don't need to read anything else to read *this*. 
> 
> Entirely self-indulgent blend of, like, forty-seven of my kinks at once. 
> 
> Much love to the usual suspects, especially my little Pix for checking my work. <3

When she was a girl, Marie-Angelique couldn't *wait* for her first corset.

Even *as* a girl, she'd heard all the talk, of course — how they could be more trouble than they were worth, how they could be terrifically *uncomfortable* at the most inconvenient *times* — but. 

But. 

Marie-Angelique wasn't a child for the playroom, or the lawns, or — anything like that. 

She'd wanted the libraries and the salons nearly as soon as she could comprehend her parents' talk, and the talk of the other — generally quite intelligent — adults they surrounded themselves with. 

A corset, she'd felt, would be a step in the right direction. 

And it had been — though, of course, by the time she'd *needed* a corset, she'd been truly disgusted by the *need* the adults around her felt for the *trappings* of adulthood. 

As far as *Marie-Angelique* was concerned, she'd needed no trappings at *all* to be ready to be numbered among the adults. 

And to be ready to make her own choices, for her own life. 

*All* of her own life. 

Right now, her husband Laurent is addressing an 'informal' gathering of their brethren among the nobility about the need for a strong defensive and offensive force in an uncertain world. 

Luncheons like these wouldn't be necessary were Henri's health still strong — or if Henri's crown weren't due to pass to a puling little *brat* — but... 

This is what life has given them all, and the French nobility *will* scatter, and sit on their fortunes and hoard them against the bad times — instead of donating for the good of all. 

That can't be allowed to happen. 

And so, Laurent acting *now*, with Marie-Angelique at his side to be charming, and gracious, and — 

And stuffed like a *sausage* into her *loosest* corset, because she's seven-and-a-half months pregnant, and also a werewolf, and — 

And, in all honesty, she *likes* corsets much of the time. 

She's *enjoyed* them for much of her adulthood, contempt for the trappings of adulthood and the need for them and all. 

She's liked what they do for her generally round and *pudgy* shape. She's liked what they do for the look in Laurent's *eyes* when he's ignoring all propriety and lacing her up himself. 

Binding her in. 

She...

She can't *bloody* stand them now that she has six extra nipples. 

There. 

She's said it, if only in the privacy of her own mind. 

She — 

(We are not *supposed* to shift, sister.) 

Of course Amina was listening to that tantrum. Of *course* she was. 

(I love it when you *curse* —) 

How is not shifting working for *you*? 

(I have, as you know, *eight* extra nipples, sister.) 

You see my *point* — 

(Your multiple points —) 

My — you're spending too much time with Treville. 

Amina hoots.(I didn't tell you to pack yourself into that *torture* device, sister.) 

I *have* to!

(You don't!) 

I do!

Amina growls.

Marie-Angelique — doesn't growl back. Instead, she looks around the table at all the *gentry* Laurent has to *impress* today — 

All the people Marie-Angelique has to *help* him impress — 

Right bloody *now* — 

Amina makes a nauseated sound. 

Just *wait*. 

(I know, I *know*. *Fuck*. Still, *it is no good for the baby*.) 

I *know*, and *believe* me, I'm having Laurent *slice* me out of this thing as soon as humanly possible, but...

(Not yet.) 

Not yet. Marie-Angelique also doesn't sigh dejectedly. 

Aloud. 

She sips her tea, and nods to one of the maids. It's time for dessert. 

Not that she dares have *any*. 

She doesn't want to fill this corset any more than she already *has* — 

Every time she *breathes*, she's — 

(Chafing?) 

All six of the extra nipples. ALL of them. 

(That sounds like it *could* be fun, at least.)

Spoken like someone who doesn't know how long Laurent is going to be tied *up* with these people!

(It annoys me so *much* that we cannot simply growl at all our problems menacingly until they go away.) 

Or at least tear out their livers!

(And eat them.) 

And eat them, Marie-Angelique says, and sighs. 

And Amina also sighs. (How was...?) 

When I sighed, the chafing was *abominable*. And wonderful. I'm *wet*. Laurent has started flaring his nostrils. 

(Oh. Hm.) 

Yes. *Very* flattering, but...

(I love it very much when my sweet brother does this, yes, but *not when he is supposed to be doing other things*.) 

Exactly. I need to get out of range. I'm not sure how I *can*, though, since I have to at least make a token effort to look like I'm not thinking about riding the candles. 

Amina snickers. (I think *I* have a solution, sister.) 

What — 

And then *Reynard* strides in, looking officious and more proper than he *ever* should — 

Until his eyes *gleam* as they sweep over her before he goes back to taking in the entirety of the room. 

"One moment," Laurent says, to their guests, and takes Reynard aside — 

Reynard whispers in his ear — 

"Mm. I believe my wife can oversee that in my absence." And Laurent looks to *her* — 

He's *smiling* behind his deep, blue eyes — 

Oh, Amina what did you *do*? 

(*I* knew Laurent wouldn't leave *you* without an *escape*.) 

I — of course — but — 

And then Reynard is bowing to her and offering his big, gloved hand — 

Amina!

(The nobles can do without quite so *many* Musketeers guarding their carriages for a time, don't you think..?) 

Marie-Angelique takes a breath — 

It makes her corset pull against her chemise and *drag* against her nipples — 

*All* of her nipples this time — 

And sometimes they *leak* now — 

Oh — 

And of course she's already standing, and making her apologies to the gathering, always gracious, always kind, always polite — 

Laughing at the little jokes about having to leave their company for the company of rough soldiers — 

Gritting her *teeth* internally — 

(Not that, ma soeur... we all like your teeth *sharp*.) 

And she can't *look* at Reynard again — not yet — but she can smile more easily, and she can be that much more the Comtesse, and she can — 

Escape — 

*Escape* — 

Out of the dining room — 

Into the halls — 

Away, away — 

"Where, ma soeur?" 

She's tempted to drag him into one of the linen cupboards — 

Reynard growls a laugh as he looks down at her. "Ah, oui? Our Laurent has been that... stimulating?" 

Marie-Angelique blushes — and leads them to the nearest guest bedroom suite, instead. 

"Non...?" 

And she remembers that the men don't *listen* when she and Amina are talking, that they don't even butt *in* unless there's an *emergency*. 

They don't even have to put up the privacy-walls anymore — and this has benefits *and* problems. 

Marie-Angelique smiles ruefully at Reynard, and gestures for him to open the door for them. 

He raises an eyebrow and does it, bowing her in — 

All of the bedrooms are aired regularly now that their family — their *pack* — is so large — 

And Reynard closes the door behind them, closes the distance between them, *grips* her hips, and buries his nose in her hair. "Your scents are perfect, soeur. And you need tell me nothing." 

"It's — the corset." 

"Ah, oui? It must be uncomfortable. Shall we get you out of it?" And he immediately moves his hands to the fastenings of the dress — 

She stops his hands. "*When* I take this off, I will *not* put it back on... and I can't do that yet." 

"Mm. And so we do this fast and dirty...?" And Reynard leans in over her shoulder and grins at her, wild and raw and —

"Oh — Reynard. I've missed you." 

He narrows his eyes and licks his lips — and most of his face. "Our last mission, soeur. Kitos, Treville, and I. We sat up all night and *tried* to make ourselves fantasize about other women and, perhaps, boys, while we were en route. It did not work. Your scents were in our noses. Your sweet bodies were in our *minds*."

"Oh." 

"At first, we could only stare — we are still not accustomed to notre meneur going on and on and *on* about *women* —" 

Marie-Angelique *coughs* — 

"But then... he started talking about your plump little nipples. *All* of your plump little nipples," Reynard says, and flexes his hands free, and *presses* his hands to her chest — 

And strokes — 

And strokes *firmly* — 

Marie-Angelique groans — 

Groans and makes a *guttural* noise when he presses *harder* — 

*Shakes* — 

"Yes, I see what the corset does to you," Reynard says, and sucks his teeth. "So cruel. These little buds must be suckled until they *bruise*." 

"HNH — don't —" 

"Don't what, soeur? Don't make you want to do what you already want to do? You know this must come *off* —" 

"But it *can't*," Marie-Angelique says, and steps *away*. "This — this can't be more than a little bit of play before I go back to *work*. Do you *understand*." 

Reynard yips — and bares his throat with a grin. "I will be *good*, ma soeur. I will be *very* good... if you tell me how I am *allowed* to be so..." 

And Marie-Angelique clenches helplessly — 

And Reynard *looks* at her groin — he could hear that. 

This close, he could *taste* that. 

"Let me taste it better. Please." 

Marie-Angelique flushes hard, sweats, needs — and turns her back to Reynard and plants her hands on the low dresser, kicking off her slippers. 

"Ah, oui? Like this? Do I flip your skirts up high —" 

"*Please*." 

Reynard growls and does it, *does* it — 

Drops to his knees — 

Spreads her legs even *wider* apart — 

She cries out — 

And he laps at her, tongue lengthening immediately, he laps at her and cleans her of her juices — 

Cleans her thighs and the creases and then spreads her lips and sucks her *cunt* — 

She *howls* — 

(Good girl...)

He sucks her cunt in hard, *sweet* pulses, teasing at the rim of it with his tongue and not going any deeper — 

Not going any deeper — 

Not — 

"*Please*!" 

He *shoves* in, all the way — 

Her knees buckle — 

Her nipples move under her chemise and corset just *enough* — 

*She* yips — but Reynard has her by one hip, one big hand on her hip, one big, strong — 

She always *forgets* that his hands are just as big as Laurent's — 

(Should I use them on you, soeur? Mm?) 

I — I — 

(Or should I just do this?) And Reynard *fucks* her with his tongue, fucks her fast, fast — 

Fast and *dirty* — 

He's *growling* — 

She's *dancing* on her feet — 

This is *why* she has to take her slippers off — the last time she'd tried this with them on, she'd *broken* the pair — 

*Both* of them — 

But she needs it — 

She *needs* just this, just *this* — and Reynard growls in *satisfaction* and fucks her *faster* — 

Marie-Angelique shudders and *yells* — 

Reaches down to touch her pleasure-button — 

Laurent never *lets* her do it — 

Kitos takes too much *space* — 

*Treville* lets her do it, but always slows *down* — 

*Teases* her — 

And Amina touches it with her, plays with it with her, slides their fingers together, soft and rough, pale and dark, stubby and *long*, until they're both slick with Marie-Angelique's juices, and she doesn't know what she was *doing* anymore — 

And Reynard is gripping her wrist. 

Reynard is *holding* her — but not stopping her. 

Reynard is *letting* her play with her own pleasure-button, *letting* her take her pleasure that way, *letting* her have her — her — 

Marie-Angelique howls again, short and high — 

Howls again and *clenches* around Reynard's tongue — 

Reynard *whips* it inside her like *Treville* — and then he fucks her even faster, growling and nuzzling and *sucking* even as he grips her by the hip and the wrist, even as he holds her steady and *allows* her — 

Allows her to have — 

Marie-Angelique *screams* a howl and dances *more*, spurting all over Reynard's *face* — 

(C'est si bon, soeur...) 

Shaking all over and — 

And she's *wracked* with it, the waves of pleasures are *slamming* through her — 

She howls *again* — 

*Again* — 

He sucks and *mouths* her — 

Works her *through* it — 

Marie-Angelique's fingers are *trembling* on her pleasure-button, and that always makes the end of spending more intense, more shudder-inducing, more — 

She can't fall *down* — 

She can't — 

She can't *breathe*, but she can't fall down. 

And she's laughing now, moaning, pushing her few artfully-tumbled locks back with her clean hand — 

Panting and panting and *panting* — 

Reynard pulls back — "Soeur, are you *certain* we cannot —" 

"*Yes*. Stop asking." 

"As you *say*. I will now use my mouth for proper things," he says, and spreads her *arse* — 

"*Oh* —" 

"Non...?" 

"I..." 

On the one hand, this is *always* good. On the other hand, time is of the essence. 

*Damnit*. 

(You are not making me *eager* for the life of a noblewoman, sister.) 

Too *bad*. You're already *married*. 

(*Shit*.) 

(I believe notre meneur would be heartbroken by this attitude, Amina —) 

(Shut it!) 

"Yes, do, Reynard, neither you nor Treville get a vote," Marie-Angelique says, standing up straight so she can get a deeper breath — 

Oh, that's better — 

(What about me, mum —) 

No. 

And Kitos booms and thunders laughter through all of them. It's the same wonderful experience as it always is — 

And, when Marie-Angelique has taken *enough* deep breaths, she bends right back over — 

And looks back over her shoulder — 

Reynard is grinning at her from beside her hip. His hair is mussed and his eyes are that hot, swampy green they get when he's — wild. 

He's always wild inside. 

He just pretends otherwise sometimes. 

*Sometimes*. 

It's almost time for him to stop that entirely — 

"Entirely...?"

Marie-Angelique clenches *hard* — 

And Reynard growls and stands, *looming* over her — "Say the *word*, soeur." 

Marie-Angelique shivers and drops her *head* — 

And Reynard licks the sweat from behind her ears — 

From her throat — 

From the dip of her collarbone — "J'ai faim, soeur..." 

Marie-Angelique clenches *again* — 

Pushes back against Reynard's groin — 

Still covered in trousers — 

There's no time for this, but — 

But she still has to grind against him, still has to *feel* him, feel his well-worked leathers and feel *him* — 

He *growls* — 

Grips her *hips* — 

But doesn't stop her. 

He lets her grind on him — 

Lets her — 

Lets her *drip* on his leathers — 

Get him *wet* — 

"You are only doing from the outside what I am doing from the *inside*, soeur..." 

Marie-Angelique groans and *shoves* back against him — 

Tries to feel *more* of him — 

"It's what you want? Mm? You want my cock?" 

"Yes — yes —" 

"Tell me you want it, soeur. *Tell* me." 

She *grunts*. 

Blushes — 

She's still not accustomed to all the different *ways* her pack can take her, can have her, can *use* her — 

She's still not accustomed to all the different ways it feels like being untethered from herself, from everything she *used* to be, from — 

Everything except for the important parts of herself. The most *vital*. 

She lowers her head still more and opens her mouth — 

A *croon* falls out — 

"C'est beau, but you can give me more," Reynard says, and smacks her hip, making her *jiggle* — 

She gasps — 

Lowers more — 

"Please give me your cock!" 

"*Where*." 

She grunts again, alive to the possibilities, all of the perfect possibilities, including the one with her on her knees with Reynard's long, long cock in her mouth, drool and spend dripping down all over this *dress* — 

"That can be *arranged* —" 

"Please! Please, in my cunt!" 

Reynard growls and *grips* her by the back of the neck. "Do you *want* that, soeur." 

"*Yes* —" 

"Are you —" 

"I'm *certain*. I just want everything else, too, and I can't *have* it." 

Reynard snarls. "We will *talk* to our Laurent about scheduling these *things* at the *proper* times," he says, releasing her and working on his laces — 

"It — it — they're *necessary* —" 

"Shh, ma soeur. Don't talk." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Unless it is to talk like *that*," Reynard says, and grins at her in the mirror. He lets his trousers fall and works on his breeches. "But I think you must focus on keeping your *breath* in that *corset*." 

"I —" 

"I think you must focus on being a *good* girl, oui?" 

"I — *fuck* —" 

"And I must focus — focus —" And Reynard growls and *spreads* her with one hand, starts to push in *immediately* — 

"Oh, *yes*!" 

Reynard pants and pushes more, *more* — 

"Nnh —" 

Shoves *hard* — 

"*UNGH* —" 

"Good. *Girl*," Reynard says, swiveling his hips and cupping her throat — 

Her hip — 

Holding her *tight* — 

Holding her head *up* and holding her tight — 

Fucking in-in-*in* so fast, so hard, so *sweet* — 

Marie-Angelique groans — 

She sobs and groans and stays right *there*, because Reynard always knows right where to *stroke*, right where to — 

Oh, every thrust, every *thrust*, and she never wants to *interrupt* him, never wants to break his *stride* — 

He's taking her so *perfectly* — 

She's gasping and *crooning* — 

He's growling and tossing his *head* — 

The thong for his hair has gone flying, and his long hair is all around his head, down past his shoulders, lank with sweat and so — 

And sometimes she understands Treville's obsessions, because right now it feels *wrong* that she's not touching it, not pulling it, not *gripping* it — 

And then Reynard laughs wildly, breathlessly, *madly* — 

*Covers* her — careful not to put too much weight on her back — and lets his long, red hair fall over her shoulders. It smells like gunpowder, sweat, *steel* — 

It smells like her *husband*, in the earliest days of their marriage, and Marie-Angelique has to bite it, suck on a long lock of it, *yank* on it with her teeth — 

"Oui — ah, *oui* —" And Reynard is fucking her harder — 

Shoving in so — 

Marie-Angelique is *quivering* inside, clenching and leaking and clenching *more*, because her body is hungry, her body wants to keep Reynard's perfect cock — 

Keep it inside her until it can fill her and fill her and fill her *more* — 

And Reynard *snarls*, teeth snapping shut just beyond the back of her neck — he's not allowed to bite her — 

*She* hadn't allowed him to *knot* her — 

He has to be going *mad* — 

"*Madder*, cherie, everyone — everyone says — ah, merde, clench *harder* —" 

She does, she *does*, and he's licking her all over, fucking her more *wildly*, and the angles aren't as perfect, but the feel is better, harder, *darker* — 

She spreads her legs wider and *braces* for it — 

She *takes* it, takes him, takes as much of him as she *can* right now, and promises more for *later* — 

And he's shifting, shifting and *growing* behind her, around her, *inside* her — 

His fur is such a deep *roan* colour — 

His claws are *black* — 

His cock is stretching her *wide*, making her moan, making her eyes roll back, making her *drool* — 

And his knot is *slapping* her lips for every thrust, every — 

His thrusts are lifting her onto her *toes* — 

His thrusts are all but lifting her off her *feet* — 

She's *throbbing* around him — 

She feels like a ragdoll in every best *way* — light, small, containable and useable and so — 

So — 

"*PERFECT*," he says, chewing the word, dripping drool and foam on her neck, on the back of her *dress* — 

But she can't care about that, she can't — 

It doesn't matter, nothing matters but getting more of *this*, more — 

And then Reynard's clawed hands are on the front of her dress again — 

He's pressing and *stroking* again, careful with his claws but with nothing else — 

He's making her *feel* all of her nipples — 

All of them all of them all — 

So hot so tingling so *big* under the corset and chemise, so *sensitive*, and she's dancing on her feet again, only she *can't*, because one of Reynard's hands is back on her hip — 

Holding her *still* — 

He's petting her chest with one hand and holding her still — 

Making her *take* — 

Her pleasure-button *flexes* — 

Flexes *again* — 

She *chokes* on a howl — 

She can't — 

She can't *move* — 

"TAKE. IT." 

She howls and spurts and spurts, and Reynard doesn't stop, doesn't stop fucking her, doesn't stop *stroking* her, doesn't stop *holding* her *still* for it — 

She howls and croons and tosses her head and *screams* — 

She spurts more, and now the baby is kicking, and that always makes spending so *strange*, something to blush for *and* something to laugh for — if she can stop howling for long enough to do it. 

She can't — 

She *can't* — 

And then she can, she's slumping over, she's gripping the dresser and shaking and *giggling*, and Reynard is pounding her, knot *slamming* against her lips again and again and *again* — 

Oh, she *wants* it, but she *can't* — 

And when this is over — 

When this whole stupid *day* is over — 

Well. 

Laurent will *owe* her — and the rest of them, too. For now, she can *work* her cunt for Reynard, clenching it and flexing it as it swells, *working* it for him — 

Making him *feel* her — 

He's *snarling* again — 

Digging his claws *in* — but *not* in against her dress. 

He's so good, so very *good*, and Marie-Angelique fills his mind with images of his fat, throbbing knot filling her *mouth* — 

He yips — 

— while she pushes three fingers just as deep as she can into his arse — 

He *howls* — 

He *slams* in — 

His knot breaches her just a little — 

Just enough to make her gasp and *croon* — 

But his cock is spasming over and over again as *he* spurts, as he *fills* her — 

Oh, so *properly* — 

She reaches back and *massages* his knot as best as she can — 

He growls and chokes and howls *more*, spurting and *spurting* — 

So thick and *hot* — 

So musky and *animal* — 

She can *smell* him — 

She can smell them *both*, and the part of her that wants to *roll* is at *definite* odds with the part of her which has to go back to the luncheon. 

Damn. 

Reynard groans and swivels his hips — 

*Grinds* — 

They moan *together* — 

And then Reynard pulls out, steady and not very slowly, at all — 

"*Oh* — *Reynard* —" 

He shifts back to human-form — "Shh, soeur — it's. Mm. Time to get *clean*," he says, and drops back down to his knees. 

And shoves his tongue *right* up her dripping cunt. 

Marie-Angelique stares at her *remarkably* stupid expression in the mirror for a moment — 

And then she drops her head. 

~

Reynard's best efforts notwithstanding, it had taken a somewhat more thorough wash — and general freshening-up — before Marie-Angelique was ready to return to her post and Reynard was ready to return to his own. 

Laurent had still stopped dead in the middle of a sentence as soon as she'd opened the door and *stared* for a long moment — 

Until she'd *looked* at him — 

And then he'd swallowed and gone back to discussing the realities of outfitting the Musketeers with a Duc. 

Marie-Angelique had taken as deep a breath as she could and taken up the duties of hostess once more... and so their day had gone, until it was time to say their goodbyes to everyone. Happily, none of these people would need to stay overnight to start their journeys in the morning. 

In truth, it would've been easier and more convenient for *most* of the attendees for the luncheon to be held in the city, but... not for the ranking ones. 

And that is that. 

(Disgusting.) 

Agreed, sister, Marie-Angelique says, and digs her fists in against her lower back once everyone is gone. What are you doing? 

(Pretending I'm not too tired and annoyed by my massive belly to cook.) 

I...

(Shut it.) 

Of course. What are you cooking?

(Fish stew. Himself asked for it three *times* last week.)

He's going to feel horrifically guilty when he finds out how tired you are. 

Amina sighs. (I know. But I do *not* know when I will have the chance to fix it for him again, after this.) 

I understand. Does the kitchen staff — 

(I made sure to explain it to them, sister. They gave me very impertinent looks.) 

That's — 

(I know that's the right thing! I think Cook tried to *coo* at me.) 

That. Um. Hm. I've... met him. 

(Then you know what a horrifying experience that was.) 

Marie-Angelique giggles — and groans, because of all the places her body feels *strained* after today. 

(Sister —) 

(Pardon me,) Laurent says, as he lifts Marie-Angelique into his arms, (but I must take my wife to bed now.) 

(Hmph.) 

Marie-Angelique laughs more — 

*Groans* more — 

Oh, this is *intolerable* — 

"I'll get you out of that corset immediately —" 

"The damage is done, I fear," Marie-Angelique says, and smiles ruefully. "I don't think I'm going to be up to doing *anything* exciting tonight." 

Laurent nods with military precision and *discipline*. "I'll inform the others —" 

"Oh, husband —" 

"And... I don't think you should be wearing a corset for the rest of your confinement, wife," he says, gently. *Carefully*. 

He *always* leaves her clothing decisions up to her. 

He leaves *his* clothing decisions up to her. 

He —

Marie-Angelique frowns. "You don't know what you're going to have to *do* for the next month and a half —" 

"That is entirely true," he says, and kicks opens the door to their bedroom suite before carrying her inside. "However, I know that this strain is only going to get worse for you, and that is... intolerable." And he frowns. 

Not *at* her. *That* would be easier to take. 

He frowns *for* her, for — well. 

"Yes, husband." 

He nods and sets her down in her chair, kneels and takes off her slippers, setting them aside —

The maids already know not to come to undress her when Laurent is carrying her around the manor like a new *groom*, and, sure enough, Laurent undresses her quickly and neatly. 

He's far less reverent than usual — and far more efficient — but neither the dress nor the corset takes any harm. 

And, once she's down to her chemise... 

Once she can *breathe* — 

The first breath is such a relief that there are tears in her eyes. 

"Oh — wife —" 

The next breath *hurts* — 

And so does the breath after that, and the breath after that, and the breath after *that* — 

And Laurent is carrying her to the bed — 

Cradling her so gently — 

Whispering — not whispering. He's speaking in a *normal* tone of voice, but Marie-Angelique can't hear because she's crooning so loudly, crooning and burrowing in, because she's *healing*, healing from all her welts and strains, and it *hurts* — 

And then it doesn't. 

It — doesn't. 

She can feel the All-Mother's attention on her like an *accusing* brand — she has apologies to make — but mostly she can feel what it means to not be in pain, and to be able to breathe, and to be able to *think* clearly, which, Marie-Angelique realizes, she hasn't been doing all *day*. 

So. 

She breathes. 

And she thinks. 

And she lets Laurent kiss her tears away. "— can tell that the All-Mother healed you, but —" 

"She healed me." 

Laurent takes a shuddering breath. "Could you tell me more?" 

Marie-Angelique smiles ruefully up at her husband. "The corset was hurting me worse than I realized." 

"I — yes?"

The right thing to say isn't 'I need to get new ones tailored.' Even though it's going to *have* to be the right thing to say, in the future. For now, though... "No more, for the rest of the pregnancy." 

Laurent nearly slumps with relief. "Thank you, wife." 

"You're —" 

(Soeur, are you all *right*? Did I hurt you? Are you well?) 

(Do I need to box fox-face's ears for him?) 

(Oui, you *said* not to touch you there —) 

Oh, Reynard, no, no, nothing *you* did was a problem. I was laced too tightly into a too-small corset when I probably shouldn't have been wearing a corset, at all. Certainly, *African* women don't. 

(That's *right*. Though this African woman does other stupid things,) Amina says. (I believe I will teach Cook how to make this stew.) And *her* pain comes through the link — 

(What the bloody hell is going *on*?) Treville says. (Amina-love, why are you hurting? Marie-Angelique — well, no, I know why you were in a corset, but — I'm wincing.) 

Marie-Angelique laughs quietly — and yawns hugely. Noted, Treville. Go take care of your *wife*. 

(She needs — Amina-love —) 

Amina sighs through the link. (Come pamper me now, sweet brother. I am very tired.) 

Treville yips and his part of the link dims immediately — 

And Laurent hums. "There's a reason why I didn't bring him on this assignment."

(And he's just going to miss the next *few* missions, I'm betting,) Kitos says. 

"I think that would be the wisest —"

(Soeur...) 

Marie-Angelique blinks. "Yes, Reynard?" 

(Tell me one more time that I have not... we all *felt* your pain as you came out of that corset, soeur.)

Marie-Angelique reaches through their link and caresses Reynard, holds him, *warms* him — 

(Oh —) 

"You did *nothing* wrong, brother. I promise," she says, and smiles. "And I sincerely hope to firm my point on that matter — and others — after I've had a good rest." 

Kitos laughs in all of them — 

Laurent hums and kisses her forehead. "I look forward to it, wife." 

And Marie-Angelique curls in against Laurent just a little bit more and closes her eyes. Sooner or later, he'll *put* her under the blankets.

That's good enough for her.

end.


End file.
